The Man from C.A.M.P. excerpt by Victor J Banis

The Man from C.A.M.P. by Victor J. Banis: When I wrote THE MAN FROM C.A.M.P. in 1966, I little suspected that I was writing something that would come to be regarded in time as a “classic.” I was simply having lots of fun and thumbing my nose while I was at it at a few of the blue-noses then censoring what we could read, especially what we could read in terms of gay fiction.

My little adventure enjoyed great success, in large part as I later realized because it was a different kind of gay novel. So far as I know, Jackie Holmes, the eponymous secret agent, was the first protagonist in gay fiction to be openly gay and proud of it, and the book ended happily at a time when most gay novel ended in doom and gloom. The success of the book and its 8 sequels was a major factor in creating that gay publishing revolution that swept the country over the next few years and in part contributed to a growing sense of community among gay males, and ultimately to the events at Stonewall.

The C.A.M.P. novels went on to become cult symbols as well. They are still selling nearly 40 years later, and I still hear from readers telling me how much they enjoyed them. In 2004, 3 of the books (The Man From C.A.M.P.; Holiday Gay; and The Son Goes Down) were reissued by Haworth Press, and when Haworth Press divested itself of its fiction titles in 2008, the rights were picked up by MLR Press, who will be issuing yet another edition in fall, 2008.

I thought it would be interesting, then, to show how I first introduced THE MAN FROM C.A.M.P.

The Man from C.A.M.P.
MLR Press (reissue) (Fall, 200

Excerpt

The bar did not, at first sight, offer a very appealing picture. Not even the dimness of the lights, which left the interior in near darkness, could manage to lend any sort of charm to the battered counter, or the stools with torn plastic hanging loose. The floor was covered with sawdust and debris of various sorts.

The customers, too, might have been described as debris. Some bars catering to homosexuals employ a certain discretion, and that discretion is often imitated by the customers. Neither The Round-Up nor its patrons could have been given credit for such thoughtfulness. The photos pinned to the walls, pictures of nearly nude young men, mostly body builders, identified the bar for what it was, a gay hangout. The patrons were as easily identified.

If the two men who had just entered found the bar and its customers peculiar, they themselves were regarded as not less peculiar by the inhabitants of the room. Not that they were particularly odd themselves; rather, it was their air of normality that made them seem out of place in The Round-Up. Neither of them gave any indication of being homosexual, or “on the prowl.” It might have been that they were police – they had an official air about them – but the patrons of The Round-Up were quite familiar with the more devious tactics employed by the vice squad of the local police. This was too open an approach, and that possibility was quickly dismissed.

The two stood inside the door for a few minutes, allowing their eyes to adjust to the dim light. Of the pair, it was the one trailing behind who aroused the most interest on the part of the people at the bar. Ted Summers was the proverbial tall, dark, and handsome. Not quite forty, he offered an appearance that was a confusing, and attractive, combination of age and youth. His unruly hair, once jet black, was now flecked with gray, and his face had a tan, leathery quality that evidenced the fact that he had been around a bit. He had, in fact, been around a lot, and his years had been action-filled, first as a heroic young marine who had come back from the service sporting numerous medals, and later as a rugged, highly-regarded investigator for the U. S. Treasury Department. His body, however, was the same body that had belonged to the young marine. Tall and powerfully built, he was every inch a man’s man, easily a match for any of the muscle boys whose photos were displayed on the walls.

His companion, on the other hand, might have been taken for an accounting clerk in some small office. Lou Upton was only a few years older than Ted, but he was already balding, and showing a tendency toward fatness, especially around the waist. He was not, never had been, the perfect physical specimen. But behind the quick gray eyes, exaggerated by the thickness of his glasses, was the mind of a top-notch policeman, a representative of the world police organization, Interpol.

With a nod toward his companion, Upton led the way to one of the booths that lined one wall. They seated themselves and sat in silence until the pimply-faced bartender had taken their order and returned with two beers. By this time the newness of their arrival had begun to wear off, and the others in the bar were losing interest, returning their attention to one another.

“Seems like a funny place to contact an agent,” Summers said in a low voice, sniffing as he glanced around the room

“Jackie’s an unusual agent,” Upton answered him, downing a healthy mouthful of his beer.

“Who is she, anyway?” Summers wanted to know. “One of your people?”

“You’ll find out in plenty of time.”

Summers frowned at the answer. “I don’t think I like this whole set up. Hell, I’ve been with the force long enough to be filled in on details. I don’t like being treated like a security risk.”

“I didn’t know you were being treated as such,” Upton replied.

“I’d say so. No one’s told me the first thing about this, except to tag along with you. I don’t know what we’re working on, or who this Jackie is, or anything else.”

“You’ll find out,” Upton assured him. “In…”

“In due time,” Summers finished with another frown.

They fell silent again, drinking their beers and occasionally glancing around at the growing crowd of homosexuals. With few exceptions, they were all the loud, flamboyant type known among their own people as “swishy.” Summers continued to feel uncomfortable. He had known one or two homosexuals in his day, who had been all right guys, but they had been the careful type, the ones you could never identify. These people were something different. He instinctively leaned away each time one of them passed near where he was sitting, as though afraid of contamination.

Upton, on the other hand, seemed quite unperturbed by the setting or the people around them. He smiled from time to time, more to himself than anyone else, as though he were enjoying some private joke.

They finished their beers, and Upton signaled the waiter to bring them two more. Summers looked at his watch impatiently.

“She’s late, isn’t she?” he said aloud. “I thought we were to meet her at ten, and it’s after ten thirty now.”

“Jackie will be here,” Upton promised him, still quite patient himself. “When the right moment comes, contact will be made”

“I’ve got to go unload some of the beer,” Summers said, standing. “Never could hold that stuff very well.”

“I’ll save your seat,” Upton answered, with another of his puzzling smiles.

Summers edged his way through the Saturday night crowd that was beginning to fill up the bar, heading for the rear. Beyond a dingy curtain was a narrow hall, with doors opening into the Ladies’ and Men’s rooms. He smiled to himself as he passed the door marked Ladies, wondering which of the male customers at the bar used that door, and entered the other.

He had just stood up to the urinal when the door opened behind him and an effeminate blond stepped up beside him. For a moment Summers ignored the newcomer, thinking instead about the mysterious Jackie whom they should have met an hour ago.

He was suddenly aware of the fact that he was being stared at. He glanced angrily sideways. The blond, short and slender, was looking him over brazenly, an irritating smile playing upon his lips.

“Nice,” he said simply, raising his face to wink at Summers.

“Knock it off,” Summers snapped angrily, stepping back.

“Don’t turn away, Mr. Summers,” the blond told him quietly. “It gives us a good excuse to stand here and talk.”

Summers froze instinctively, despite his rather awkward position. “You know my name?” he asked, staring in surprise at the still smiling homosexual.

“I know quite a bit about you,” the blond assured him. He glanced meaningfully downward as he added, “Although they left the nicest things out of the report.”

Summers blushed and stepped back to the urinal, leaning close against it to prevent any possible observation of his endowments. “But who the hell…?” He stopped in mid sentence and his jaw fell open. “Oh, no, you can’t be…”

The blond nodded. “Umm-hm, I’m Jackie.”

http://www.mlrpress.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Man_from_CAMP

In the Blood excerpt by Rick R Reed

By day, Elise draws and paints, spilling out the horrific visions of her tortured mind. By night, she walks the streets, selling her body to the highest bidder.

And then they come into her life: a trio of impossibly beautiful vampires.

In the Blood is a novel that will grip you in a vise of suspense that won’t let go, forcing you to stay up long past midnight, turning page after page, until the very last moment, when a surprising turn of events changes everything and demonstrates, truly, what love and sacrifice are all about.

In the Blood
Quest (September 10, 2007)
ISBN: 1932300902

Excerpt

Maria sees her first: a whore. Long hair and tight clothes. Stiletto heels and black rubber bracelets climbing up one arm. She stands alone, watching the traffic go by, her eyes staring restlessly into the glass shielding each driver. She tries to appear streetwise and tough, but there’s a vulnerability to her stance, a little too much hunger in her eyes to make the act convincing.

She’s desperate.

She’s perfect.

Maria moves back into the shadows, pulling her companions with her. They are sandwiched between a convenience store and a movie theater, long ago abandoned, a home for nothing more than pigeons and trash. With Jimmy Choo spike heels, she kicks aside a fearless pigeon and a Popeye’s chicken box.

“Look.” She nods toward the whore. All three pairs of eyes train in on the woman across the street. Her beauty draws them, or at least what once could be referred to as beauty, her looks are sliding downhill; she looks beyond tired, a rose whose petals are velvety, but blackened and drooping. What really sets their mouths to watering is her vulnerability. Easy pickings are always the best. Why cast a line into an ocean when you can shoot into a barrel?

At once, each of the three is more aware of the woman than she could ever realize. She is like something small, a rabbit nibbling on grass as a hunter is positioning it in the crosshairs of his rifle. Even from their vantage point across the street, they feel the heat emanating from her body, drifting over to them in shimmering waves. They see it as no one else can: a crimson aura surrounds her body, pulsing in the heat. Her scent, sour body odor not masked at all by cheap cologne, rides the heat like a magic carpet. It smells of fresh game, clean, yet musky. Heavy. The blood pulsing in the whore’s veins reveals itself; almost audible, the tide of it, as the heart pounds out a beat. She is alive, glimmering with life.

Appetizing.

It’s almost too much. A feast of the senses; a cornucopia. Corpuscles of fat floating in the most delicious blood, thick and viscous, with a sharp metallic tang. It excites all sorts of hunger. Maria turns to Terence and wraps her arms around him, her mouth devouring his, tongue exploring the dryness within, sliding over his teeth. Edward presses himself into Maria from behind, thrusting against her, feeling the taut flesh and bone outlined beneath the satin of her dress. Tight between the two men, Maria throws back her head, grinding herself back and forth, pushing their insistent hardness against her. She sighs, imagining someone walking by, deigning to join this impromptu orgy. If someone should, they would never emerge from the shadows again. This trio has always had a problem dealing with the curious, but no problem with swiftly extinguishing that curiosity…forever.

Cold flesh touches cold flesh. Eyes close. Each whispers and moans proclamations of lust and desire. Edward nuzzles the ice skin just below Maria’s hairline in back, biting, biting harder until the skin breaks, exploring the small barren openings his teeth have made with his tongue. Maria arches her back, and stops.

“Now, we should go to her now.” Maria pulls away from the panting men, lust brightening their eyes, even here in the shadows. “Terence, you approach her.”

Terence doesn’t need further encouragement. He loves this part of the hunt. Breaking away, Terence waits for the passing cars and dashes across the street. He knows exactly how he looks, the blond hair shining in the artificial neon brightness of the night, the high cheekbones and full lips. The costume of tight leather and pewter latex. A whore’s dream: money and beauty, too.

The whore is about to light a cigarette. An opportunity. Terence brings out his silver lighter and hurries to her, flame erect, before she can raise the cheap plastic disposable in her hand. He meets her eyes as the flame transfers some of its glow to the tip of her cigarette.

“Thanks.” She exhales twin streams of smoke through her nostrils, and. appraises him, taking in the leather and latex, wondering perhaps what someone like him is doing in her part of town. She draws in hard on the cigarette, cheeks collapsing. Thin tusks of blue gray smoke rise. She burns.

“Hot tonight.” Terence smiles and looks around him, as if for the source of the heat.

The whore smiles, shakes her head. “You gotta do better than that for an opening line.” She laughs. “Ah, but the way you look, what do you need lines for?” She cocks her head, suddenly the coquette.

“Flatterer.” Terence touches the whore’s bare shoulder.

She flinches, shrugging his hand away. “Baby, you’re cold. How’d you manage that?”

Terence thinks for a moment. “Just got out of air conditioning.”

The whore looks around, trying to locate the building from which Terence has emerged.

More conversation. Cheap words mouthed to get to the real purpose. Finally, the whore cuts short the compliments and inanities about the weather and cuts to the chase, not knowing that the chase began a while back.

“What do you get into?” Her eyes flicker, moving down Terence’s body like liquid. Her voice has a broad, Midwestern twang: flat A’s, sharp and nasal.

“There are three of us.”

“Group scene.” The whore nods. “Been there. There’s no group rate, though. It’ll cost each of you the same as if you came to me individually.”

“So that’s all right with you?”

“Anything’s all right, so long as it’s worth my while.” She takes one more drag off the cigarette, drops it to the pavement, and grinds it under her toe. “I assume you got a place. Otherwise, it’s extra. There’s a motel on Sheridan.”

“No need for that. We have a car nearby. Come with us?”

“What kinda car?”

“A black Mercedes.”

Eyes light up. “Let’s go.”

The Mercedes idles at a corner, just steps away from Lake Michigan. It’s quieter here, away from the bustle of Howard Street. Once in a while, someone strolls down to the lakefront, or a figure passes across a lighted window. Otherwise, here so close to the lake, it’s deserted.

“Shit! Why you wanna make me walk so far in these shoes? Couldn’t you have had one of your friends come and pick us up? Jesus, don’t you have a cell?” The whore bends down and pulls off the black spike heels and grips them angrily in one hand, continuing in a tight little barefoot canter. “You’re gonna have to give me some money for new hose.”

“Sorry,” Terence says, not bothering to explain, but there is a reason: Maria always plans ahead; she’s cautious. The car will be close to the lake, away from the bright lights and bustle. This way, there will be fewer witnesses. Even whores, sometimes, have friends. There have been times when they had taken the wrong person. There was trouble, and they had to flee. Terence and Maria have lived all over the world, nomads with the stench of death following them, too cunning to be caught, but unable to stay―and feed―in one place for too long.

“Not to worry, my dear. Our vehicle is just ahead.” Terence nods at the Mercedes, black, shimmering, and reflecting the moon. There’s a low hum, the song of solid German engineering. The windows are black.

“Nice car.” She giggles, running a red fingernail across the trunk.

Terence opens the back door for her. She slides in; Terence follows, closing the door behind them with a muffled thunk.

The whore settles in, grinning and leaning back into the leather. It takes her a second to notice Maria in the front seat. “Ah,” she says, “we got a lady here.”
Maria turns. “I hope that’s not a problem.”

“Problem? Honey, it’s a bonus.” The whore smiles at Maria, engaging her with her eyes. She tries to keep their gazes locked. Maybe that way, Maria won’t notice the crooked teeth and the slash across her right cheek, the smooth white scar.

“This is Maria.”

The whore offers her hand. Maria makes a kissing expression in its direction but does not touch it. “I’m very pleased.” Maria gestures toward Edward, sitting next to her. “And this is Edward.”

Edward turns and gives a small wave. His face is tight, revealing nothing.
The car pulls away from the curb, makes a U-turn, and heads south on Sheridan Road.

Back at the vampires’ house, the mood is one of anticipation. A party on the cusp of bursting into revelry. Terence, purveyor, escorts the whore to a bedroom done entirely in red: red satin settees, heavy red drapery, blood red velvet, flocked wallpaper.

The whore giggles at the sight of the room’s interior. “God! It’s like a womb.” She paces, fingering the heavy draperies. “Or a bordello.”

The three say nothing. Terence leads her to the bed and pulls her down next to him. Wordlessly, they all shed their clothes. The air fills with the whispers of satin, creaks of leather, the thud of shoes hitting the floor. Terence implores the whore to keep her stilettos on, though. “You look so hot with those on…and nothing else,” he tells her. The three take their places, wordlessly concurring. Maria sits on the floor at her feet, and Edward remains in a corner near the door, watching, eyes brilliant in the flickering of the candles.

Now, Terence strokes the woman, cupping and holding her breasts. He stares into her eyes while pinching harder on her nipples, almost as though searching for an indication of pain.

“Your hand’s so cold.”

“Warm it.”

The whore gasps and stiffens as Terence’s hand dives between her thighs. “I don’t understand…” There is something wrong. This coldness is unnatural. The whore thinks this leathery cold flesh feels dead. But that can’t be. They’re horny. They want a three-way. Dead people don’t wander around at night, picking up streetwalkers. She knows; she’s seen enough dead people. None of them managed to worm a cold hand between her thighs. But still, the feel of the cold flesh pressing inside her makes her feel nauseous. If she didn’t need the money, maybe she would get up, saying something like, “Sorry folks, this isn’t my scene. I’ll find my way out.” But she knows it’s not that simple. Once you commit to a scene, putting things in reverse is very difficult. Sometimes, it’s easier to just go through with it. Still, this cold flesh is really creepy.

She whimpers and shifts slightly to free herself from Terence’s cold probing fingers. Fear is making her own skin icy.

Maria, attuned to the fear in her eyes, rises and moves to a walnut armoire. She extracts several one hundred dollar bills and scatters them over the whore. They flutter down over her body.

“Warmer?” Maria’s voice is throaty. Deep as a man’s, yet in no way masculine. She knows how to speak the whore’s language.

“Yesss,” the whore hisses, staring at all the money. She spreads her legs to give Terence better access. Maria kneels at the whore’s feet and removes a stiletto heel. She takes the whore’s great toe in her mouth and sucks it. The whore closes her eyes as Terence moves to kiss her. She stiffens at the feel of his tongue: dry, rough, and again, icy cold. But she makes herself kiss back, trying to ignore the repulsion she feels. They’re all beautiful, but not one of them is desirable. She forces herself to think about the money, scattered around her. Christ, she thinks, there has to be at least a thou…

Terence pushes her hand down on his sex. It feels like ice.

The woman stiffens. In spite of all the money, in spite of everything, she doesn’t know if she can do this. She doesn’t know if there is a place in her mind that’s far away enough to distance herself from the revulsion and the horror. She sits up abruptly, pulling her foot away from Maria. “Why are you all so cold? I don’t get it.” Her heart races. Perhaps she can grab a few of the bills and make a break for it. Something is not right here. Something she doesn’t want to think about too closely, for fear she’ll lose her mind. But something instinctive in her is telling her she needs to get away. Even if it would mean running into the street stark naked and screaming…

And Edward is there to calm her. “Have some of this.” He hands her a lighter and the glass cylinder, its bowl filled with a fat bud of marijuana glistening with resin. She looks down at it in surprise, looks back up at Edward, not sure whether to be grateful or wary.

The whore’s chest heaves. All three sense her dichotomy: dread and desire wrapped into one conflicting package, each emotion pulling with its own force. They are old hands at dealing with this kind of war. They are confident in its outcome.

The whore takes the pipe and fires up the bowl. The cylinder fills with smoke, becoming opaque. Clarity returns in seconds as the woman sucks down the smoke. “Damn,” she whispers. “Where’d you find shit like this?” Already, she feels as though she is speaking from within a long tunnel.

No reply. Terence takes the woman’s hand and forces her to put the pipe back to her mouth. She giggles. “Okay, okay.”

After three hits, the woman has forgotten her fear, has stopped wondering why her three companions for the evening have such cold flesh and empty eyes, pale skin smooth like polished stone. Standing naked, the whore surrenders to their touch—all over, hands moving faster and faster, exploring. She closes her eyes, no longer aware who is twisting her nipples to an area where pain and pleasure mesh, no longer aware whose fingers are exploring her sex, her ass. The pot has filled her with a warm stupidity. She can think of only one thing at a time and that is how good these three pairs of hands feel on a body that is growing hotter and hotter with their chilled caresses. Juices run down her thighs, viscous, fragrant. Three tongues lapping make it almost impossible for the whore to stand. Dragging the three with her like sucking leeches, the whore moves to the fireplace and lies on the red and black patterned rug before it. She spreads her legs wide, pushing at them to enter her more deeply, to continue to bring out this wondrous pleasure she has never felt.

And then, the whore is sitting astride Terence, cock like an icicle buried deep. Edward squats behind and above her, pelvis arched out to thrust more deeply into her ass, and Maria presses the whore’s face into her own cold but yielding sex lips. Vaguely, through the fog of sensual pleasure and drugged stupidity, the whore remembers reading that the devil’s penis feels like ice. She shuts her eyes and grinds down harder on this pillar of ice muscle inside her. It feels good, damn it. It feels good. She reaches out with her tongue, lapping at Maria’s sex, tasting her, burying her face in the silken black hair that frames Maria’s moist lips, digging her tongue deep inside.

The whore sees this tableau in her mind’s eye, almost as if she is at once removed from it and deep within it, the center. She cries out, not knowing how she can stay conscious under the weight of such pleasure.

And then they are biting.

And at first, it’s all right, the tiny nips and nibbles nothing more than an extension of their lust, making it better and better. She’s endured nibbles and even harder bites in the name of pleasure. Seldom has she let anyone actually break her flesh…and seldom has anyone wanted to. She winces as their teeth penetrate. “Ow!” She laughs. “Watch it, there! I don’t go in for the rough stuff. Not too rough, anyway.” She bats at them with an ineffectual hand.

But then the bites become harder and harder and the whore awakens from the haze of the marijuana as the teeth, suddenly razor-like and distinctly not human, pierce and rend her flesh. “Oh, God,” she whimpers, muscles contracting at the pain like hot needles boring into her. She wants to scream, but feels paralyzed. Her voice dies in her throat as she looks down and sees Maria tear a hunk of flesh from her inner thigh, the skin, muscle, and blood hanging from her teeth. The whore lies convulsing, struggling as the bites penetrate deeper, ripping and shredding, faster and faster, on her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, her ass, all the tender areas. Piercing and penetrating. Sucking sounds filter up to her dull hearing.

Before everything goes dark, she sees: Terence and Edward biting down into her breasts, their mouths ringed with blood. Terence’s gaze meets hers. He smiles, fangs bright in a sea of crimson. One drop of her blood drips from his chin. And then, with a grunt, he lowers his head again, and rips her nipple off with his teeth. He teases the nipple with his teeth, playing with it, and then suddenly it’s gone.

The whore closes her eyes, shuddering and surrendering. She does not have enough sense to wonder why the cold bodies have suddenly become hot.

http://www.amazon.com/Blood-Rick-R-Reed/dp/1932300902/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1209387552&sr=8-1

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http://www.myspace.com/rickrreed

The Hired Man excerpt by Dorien Grey

Since the beginning is always a good place to start, here is the opening of The Hired Man, book #4 of the 11 (soon to be 12) book Dick Hardesty Mystery series, in which enters the little known world of the male escort and their wealthy clients.

The Hired Man
GLB Publishers (June, 2002)
ISBN:1-879794-76-7

Excerpt

I was sitting at the bar at Napoleon—early as usual—waiting to have dinner with a brand-new client. Napoleon is a very nice, quiet gay restaurant in a former private home on the edge of The Central—the city’s rapidly growing gay business district in the heart of what some still called “the gay ghetto.” The client, Stuart Anderson, was from out of town—the C.E.O. of an expanding chain of trendy kitchen supply boutiques which was opening two new stores here. He’d called me from Buffalo the week before to set up an appointment. While I was dutifully impressed to think that my fame had spread beyond my local area code, he’d been really vague when I asked him how he had heard of me, or who had referred him. He’d just said “a business acquaintance” had made the referral, and I didn’t press it any further, though I was curious. Also, though the subject of sexual orientation never entered the conversation, I automatically assumed he was gay (hey, I automatically assume everyone is gay) since I have had very few straight clients.

Part of the mystery of his secretiveness was solved within two minutes of his walking into the office for his 4:30 appointment. Stuart Anderson, it turned out, was an average height, average looking, pleasant-enough man in his mid 40s, dressed casually but expensively, and carrying a slim briefcase. He had no sooner taken the seat in front of my desk when I noticed that though he had a healthy tan, the third finger of his left hand had a wide, untanned circle where he had obviously taken off a wedding ring. Oh, great, I thought, one of those.

Rather than just sit back and wait for the expected pass, I thought I’d nip in the bud any little game he might be intending to play.

“I appreciate your calling me, Mr. Anderson,” I said. “But I think we should clarify something before we proceed: I assume you know that I’m gay and generally specialize in gay clients?” His only response was a small smile and almost imperceptible nod, but since he said nothing, I continued. “I mention this only because it is an issue for some people, and I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings or awkwardness between my clients and me.”

He never lost the small smile, but I noticed that his right hand unconsciously found his left and his right thumb and index finger went to cover the telltale untanned circle. “Not a problem,” he said. “My business here has nothing whatever…directly…to do with…anyone’s …sexual orientation. I was simply told you were very good at getting information.” His right thumb and forefinger slowly twisted the missing wedding ring. I wondered why in hell he’d bothered to take it off in the first place if he was going to make it so obvious he wore one.

It turned out that he merely wanted me to do a careful background check on the prospective managers and assistant managers for the new stores, which was apparently something he did routinely and was probably a good idea given that he himself wouldn’t be around every day to check on things. I estimated it would take only a couple of days to do the checking. Hardly the most exciting of assignments, and certainly not one that any other private investigator in the city couldn’t handle in his sleep, but I wasn’t in a position to turn away any source of income. I had a couple other minor assignments I was working on, but they could be put on hold for the few days it would take to complete this one.

I told him my rates and when he didn’t bat an eye, I reached into my desk and handed him a standard contract, which he signed without reading. I signed below his signature and, as I went to my new Xerox machine to make him a copy, he opened his briefcase. When I handed him his signed copy, he gave me the resumes of the four men and two women he was considering for the managerial positions I glanced at them briefly to be sure they had all the necessary information, and put them in the top drawer of my desk.

Business over.

Well, that was easy, I told myself.

Anderson made no move to get up from his chair. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me for dinner?” he asked.

Ta-Dah! I thought.

“That’s very nice of you, Mr. Anderson,” I began, “but…”

“It’s Stuart, please,” he said with a smile. “And please don’t misunderstand—I’m not trying to come on to you. It’s just that we have a mutual…friend…whom I’m meeting for dinner this evening and I thought you might like to join us. I know he’s looking forward to seeing you.”

He had me. I still suspected there might be a hook in there somewhere, but decided I didn’t really have too much to lose…except a client, of course.

“Well, sure,” I said. “That would be nice.” I didn’t ask who the mystery “friend” might be, but got the distinct impression that Anderson was giving me a little test to see how curious this detective he’d just hired might be.

Anderson got up from his chair, still smiling, and reached across the desk as I got up to shake hands.

“Seven thirty, then? At Napoleon—you know it, don’t you?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll see you there. And thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said, and I somehow had a mental picture of a cat and a mouse.

And with that, he picked up his briefcase and left.

* * *

At exactly 7:25, Stuart Anderson walked in…alone. Uh huh. Here we go, I thought. He came over and took the stool next to me. Noticing my drink was still about 3/4 full, he nonetheless asked “Ready for another?”

I shook my head. “I’m fine, thanks,” I said as the bartender came over.

“Tangueray with a twist,” he said, reaching into his pocket to extract a roll of bills large enough to choke a pony, if not a horse. He peeled a $20 off the top, laid it on the bar in front of him, and stuck the wad back in his pocket.

“And our friend?” I couldn’t resist asking.

Anderson smiled. “He’ll be along in a moment,” he said. “Actually, I made the reservations for eight o’clock, to give us a few minutes to get to know one another.”

Sigh.

“I don’t normally mix business with pleasure,” he continued, “but I so seldom have the chance to just relax it’s nice to be among kindred spirits when I can.”

Kindred spirits, I thought, listening for the sound of imaginary hairpins hitting the floor.

“Yes,” I said. “I noticed you’re married.”

He glanced quickly at his left hand, splayed his fingers, and grinned. “Yeah,” he said. “Fifteen years, three kids; a different world. And a totally separate world,” he added.

Indeed, I thought.

“Any problem juggling them?” I asked. Bisexuals have always been a puzzle to me. Like the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, I wasn’t really sure I believed in them, but what other people did or thought was none of my business.

The bartender came with his drink, took his money and went to the register to ring up the sale and make change.

“Not at all,” Anderson said, jump-starting me back to where the conversation had left off. “When I’m in the straight world, I’m straight. When I’m in the gay world I’m…not straight. Obviously, most of my life is strictly heterosexual, but I’ve always enjoyed the things gay men can do that women can’t.”

Well, that was certainly cryptic, I thought, but didn’t choose to follow up on it. If he expected me to ask “Such as…?” he’d just have to wait. I still wasn’t convinced that this wasn’t all part of some game he enjoyed playing; and if he thought for one minute I wasn’t aware that he was playing….

“Fortunately,” he said, “I get to travel quite a bit, and when I do, I like to indulge myself a little.” He took a sip of his drink, then turned to look at me, full face. “How about you?” he asked. “Totally gay?”

I took another drink from my Manhattan before answering. “About as gay as they come,” I said.

“Hmm,” he said. “How old were you when you knew?” he asked.

I sat back on my stool. “I was really a late bloomer,” I said. “I think I was five before I was absolutely sure.”

Anderson looked a bit surprised. “And you’ve never…?”

I grinned and shook my head. “Never the slightest interest,” I said, rather hoping we could drop this whole line of conversation pretty soon.

Luckily, at that moment I noticed someone else coming into the small bar: tall—about six foot three—, black wavy hair, incredibly handsome. When he saw me he smiled, revealing about 72 of the whitest, most perfect teeth I’ve ever seen.

“Phil?” I asked, turning around on my stool and getting up to greet him. I noticed Anderson smiling broadly as Phil came over and grabbed me in a huge bear hug, which I returned. When we released one another, Phil turned to Anderson and shook hands: “Stuart,” he said warmly. “Good to see you.”

I managed to sit back down and, while Phil and Anderson exchanged a few words and Phil gave the bartender his order, my mind went back to my first meeting with Phil…or, as I first knew him, “Tex/Phil”…at Hughie’s, a hustler bar not far from my office. He’d been in full Marlboro Man drag at the time—though I thought even then that he had the Marlboro Man beat by a mile. Seeing him now, looking like he’d just stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine, only underscored the fact that Phil was an amazingly handsome—and sexy—piece of work But clearly, there had been some dramatic changes in his life.

http://www.doriengrey.net/

Times Queer excerpt by Mykola Dementiuk

Times Queer excerpt by Mykola Dementiuk is a graphic, dark, coming-of-age story set in New York’s infamous Times Square during the 1950s and 60s. Introduced to sexual feelings at an early age, protagonist Richard Kozlovsky continues on a path shared by many children who have been touched in a sexual way by an adult, a path of frequent masturbation, exhibitionism, and other precocious sexual behavior. Ricky grows up in spite of his hard life in a Catholic school, teasing by his classmates, and trying to survive on the streets of Manhattan with sexual predators at every turn.

Frequenting the Times Square movie theaters as a teen, Ricky finds a way to supplement his meager existence and later meets the woman who will introduce him to the world of women, intimacy, and love. In between he questions his sexuality: is he a faggot? is he a whore? where does he fit in?

Times Queer
Synergy Press (200
ISBN: 0-9758581-1-4

Excerpt

Times Queer

It was always known to me as Times Queer. Where else could you get blown or jerked off at 4 am, or 2 pm, or midnight, or whatever time of the day it was? The Queer wasn’t a state of mind, but an actual location, 42nd Street and Broadway, one that came to be synonymous with hidden sex. Hidden because it was done in secret. In shadows, in movie seats, in balconies, in bliss.

It must have been forty, fifty years earlier. I was a little kid and traveling on the subway with my parents. The train was packed with people like us, going uptown. We got on at 14th Street to a crowd of happy Sunday people.

Not wanting to be in the confines of my parents, I snuck over to the end of the car, where the doors were open and a wind of black tunnels poured in. Unlike when we traveled to Coney Island, there wasn’t much to see, just lights, shadows, and glimpses of other people in the next car.

On 34th Street a person got up, leaving a seat. There being no one around I took it. A man was sitting there but made a move to give me room. Sitting next to him, I felt a hand slide up my thigh and circle round my crotch. I remained still but my crotch grew hard. He began to fumble with my zipper, using his other hand to hold my flap open, and he inserted his hand. But he fumbled again trying to find the underwear flap.

I didn’t know what was going on. At the age of seven there’s little you can think of except following elders.

Suddenly the train pulled into Times Square and the man let me go and stood up. For a moment I thought of standing up, too, but I remained sitting and watched him go. He walked firmly, like he owned the world and had done nothing wrong.

The doors closed and I slunk back to my parents, ashamed of something, but I wasn’t sure what? My father was joking with my mother, laughing at the people in the station passing by.

“Times Queer,” he laughed. “That’s what they should call this place, Times Queer!”

I felt very embarrassed but glad this place had a name. I was determined to come back.

Movies

We were going to the movies on Broadway, something most of the class had not done before. It was our first trip uptown, so we were very excited and happy, but in some ways, it was also a nervous time. A few guys joked about the “nellies that will get you, if you don’t watch out,” but I just smiled and pretended to laugh it off.

“Nellie,” I joked, “scratch the belly!” I raised my voice to a high-pitched yell which got off the girls who laughed hysterically.

“Oh Ricky,” one of them laughed. “You sound just like a nellie!” I joined in the laughter until the teacher turned and angrily walked back toward us.

“What’s going on here!?” the nun screamed, spotting me. “Richard Kozlovsky, what did you do now!?”

I stood there cowering, weakened and shamed by her screams, like I was the one who deserved her wrath.

“I can’t take you anywhere!” she screamed, grabbing me painfully by the
hair. “Stand still!” she shouted at my frenetic jerks, as she forcefully pulled my hair at the skull. “You hear me? I said, ‘stand still!’”

I began to cry shamefully, the eyes of the kids boring into me as if they would attack.

“Stand still!” the nun repeated to me, “Will you stand still?!”

All the kids gathered around us but the nun held onto my hair as if that was preventing her from letting me go.

“You’re disgusting!” she finally screamed, and pushed me away from her.
“Disgusting boy. I can’t let you go anywhere! You’ll just have to wait
outside for us!”

With that she bustled the kids into the movie theater with stern looks from the passers by. I sheepishly followed, thinking I could get in that way, but the nun saw me and yelled out, “I thought I told you ‘No!’ Stay here, where you belong!” She continued to escort the kids in and she held a conversation with the ticket-taker, who was as ugly as the nun. Through my tears I saw them and hated them, would hate them forever. “It’ll be all right, Sister,” I could hear the ticket-taker say. “We don’t fool around.”

With that the nun was gone after my classmates, and I was left all alone with the ticket-taker who seemed to be unconcerned with me. As a matter of fact, I noticed, he paid me no mind, for which I was very grateful.

I walked around the lobby, taking in the soda machines and movie posters, one with Marilyn Monroe wearing a baby top and looking as seductive as ever. As usual, I got a hard-on which would make me piss, like it did in the morning, or so I thought.

With the ticket-taker ignoring me, I stepped to the side and went into the men’s room. I knew it best to keep the image of Marilyn in my mind and enjoy it when I heard the door opening. Quickly I moved to the urinal to cover myself. My dick was still hard. I hoped the man wouldn’t stay long so I could get back to looking at it and imagining Marilyn.

Suddenly he began to touch me. I froze, and pressed myself closer to the urinal walls. But he kept on, forcing an opening between us for his hand to reach in and feel me. My little prick was big and hard; I didn’t know what he would do with it.

He circled his fingers round my cock and gently began an up and down motion.

It was bliss; I felt myself melting and not caring what was to happen.
He began to stroke my cock a little faster. I felt myself melt a little more with innocent expectation. Suddenly the euphoria gripped me, like something was exploding inside me. My cares melted away. Still, in this ecstasy, I felt the man let go of me, heard the bathroom door opening and closing, and stood there all alone, not caring if I stood there forever.

It was the first time I had come and I felt totally new, like I was some new baby or new boy destined for bigger and better things. Now I couldn’t wait for the traitorous classmates so I could rejoin them and go home, where I could be alone. Now I knew what had to be done with my prick, and it wasn’t solely to take a piss. I could play with it, too.

http://timesqueer.blogspot.com

Lawless excerpt by Sarah Black

Lt. Colton Wheeler is the law in a lawless land. A year after his lover, Dr. Diego Del Rio, lost his eye in a vicious hate crime,trouble from across the border threatens to shatter the life they’re building together.
An old lover stakes a claim, and Colton suspects he wants more than Diego. Colton’s family comes under attack, a missing Apache boy is accused of cattle rustling, and bloody tribal masks from the old rituals are being worn by someone carrying a whip, bent on terrifying the people of the borderlands.
Colton only knows one way to protect his people. By walking into trouble, by drawing fire, by putting himself between the people he loves and those who mean them harm.

Lawless
Liquid Silver Books (April 21, 200
ISBN: 978-1-59578-461-2

Excerpt:

Scrubby juniper and pinon pine, twisted and bent by the wind, dusty sage and tumbleweed dotted the landscape out the windows of the pickup. Diego leaned over and put his head in Colton’s lap to sleep on the drive out to the old rancher’s place. This is what heaven would be like, Colton thought. Driving an old pickup around the southern Arizona desert with Diego asleep on his lap. He put his hand down, rested it in his silky hair. He had come very close to losing him in the weeks after the hate crime that had cost him his eye. Closer than he realized, thanks to Rodrigo Valdez.

Diego stirred against his thigh and sat up, yawning. “We nearly there?”

“Yeah.” He opened the directions Sanchez had written down for him.

You’ll pass the sign for the abandoned copper mine on the left. Check your odometer and go seven-tenths of a mile further. On the right is a dirt track. Turn there and drive two miles until you get to the house.

“Have you seen the sign for the mine yet?”

Colton shook his head. “Should be coming up soon. You have a busy
night at the hospital, baby? I didn’t even ask.”

Diego shook his head. “A couple of acute abdomens I decided to watch. I stitched up a nasty knife wound. The girlfriend he cheated on practically carved her initials into his ass. That boy’s gonna have quite a scar. Colton, look. Is that it?”

He looked out the window. A big, weathered piece of wood with faded red lettering was propped between a couple of juniper fenceposts: Peligro! Danger! Abandoned Mine.

“Looks like it.” He glanced down at the odometer and turned onto the rough dirt track that in these parts passed for a road. “The old manbneeds to get a grader out here. I wonder how many tires he loses in a year?”

The ranch house was small and old, ochre colored adobe, built in the old way, thick walls, vigas and a flat roof, a couple of buildings out behind the pasture. The adobe looked like it needed some patch work. Colton had checked out the fences as they drove in, and they were in bad repair. The old man might have just lost his cattle because they took a walk out one of those broken pieces of fence.

He pulled up and parked next to a battered old Chevy. Impossible to tell if it was originally the color of dust, or if it had acquired that color through time and hard living.

Diego climbed out and walked around the front of the pickup, fitting the new cowboy hat down on his black curls. Faded Levi’s, snakeskin cowboy boots with dust on the toes, black silk T-shirt and his hair was loose down to his shoulders. And that Stetson. Colton felt the bottom drop out of his stomach, lust, helpless love. He could have dropped to his knees in the dirt. “Jesus.”

He had Diego backed up against the hood of the truck, one hand sliding through his hair, another sliding around that slender waist, and he pulled him close, buried his face in his warm neck. “Jesus, Diego…”It hit him like this, sometimes, like he was standing on the ocean shore, and a huge cold salty wave knocked him back on his ass. It was shameless, the way he felt about his man.

Diego slid fingers up under the new shirt, back and forth over Colton’s belly. “Now, that’s the reaction I was looking for.”

His arms were trembling, his heart thudding in his throat. “I want to die in your arms. That’s not too much to ask, is it?” The words fell out of his mouth before he could stop them. Diego’s hands stilled against his belly and he moved closer, turned his head until his lips grazed Colton’s ear, his cheek, his jaw, and settled on his mouth. Diego opened his mouth, let Colton slide his tongue inside and touch him.

“Goddamn, boy, your granddaddy know about this?”

Colton turned around and studied the old man. He was so skinny his Wranglers were held up with a rawhide belt wrapped twice around his waist. His head and his chin were covered with prickly nubs of hair, like an old boar, the exact color of the dust and sandstone surrounding them, and not a tooth in his head.

“Yeah, he probably knew.” He let Diego go, turned around and offered his hand. “Lt. Colton Wheeler, Pima County Sheriff’s Department.”

“I’m Joshua Weaver.” Colton reached into his pocket for his ID, but the old man waved him off. “I know who you are.” He pointed to Diego with a tobacco stained forefinger. “I know I’ve seen you somewhere.”

Diego adjusted the Stetson. “Ah…”

“You’re that doctor fixed my ball last year.” He turned back to Colton. “One of my balls, it turned ugly, swelled up as big as a coconut and the thing was turning black. I thought it was the end, gangrene, but that boy fixed me right up. Seems like he had two eyes back then. Well, it’s a mean world.”

He turned around, waving for them to follow. “Come on in, boys. You’re here about the cattle rustling, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I thought I’d die of old age before somebody showed up.” They followed him up to the front porch, and Diego studied the arrangements. There were a couple of battered lawn chairs and a low sprung couch made of some yellowish-brown colored material. They could see where the old man’s spot was on the couch. It was leaning, about ready to dump him on his ass on the weathered boards of the porch, and his bottle and ashtray were in easy reach. Diego grabbed one of the lawn chairs and pulled it around, dumping the sand off the seat, and he passed it over to Colton and got the other one for himself.

Joshua went into the house. “I’ll bring us out some coffee.” They could hear him rustling around inside, and Colton was thinking it would be better for Diego not to see the old man’s kitchen. Colton wasn’t quite sure where the water was coming from, but he suspected the hand pump around the side of the house was it. He also thought he had spotted an outhouse about 200 yards out back.

“Here you go.” He handed around heavy old mugs, filled about two thirds with black coffee, then he settled in his spot and reached for the bottle. He poured a healthy slug of whiskey into all three cups. Colton looked at Diego staring down at the coffee. He looked up, met Colton’s eyes, and his eyes were somber, the memories of what Rodrigo Valdez had done to him chasing each other across his face. Colton took a sip of his coffee. Bitter and black, with a smooth bite behind it. Good ranch coffee. He nodded his head, and Diego bent his head and took a sip.

“I need to tell you a bit about the boy’s mama,” Joshua said. “Then you’ll know why I know it was him took that livestock.”

“What all is missing?” Colton put his cup down and pulled out his little notebook.

“Two cows, two calves, and three goats. I can’t blame him for the missing chickens, though I have my suspicions, cause we do have coyotes out here. I don’t want to blame the boy unfairly.”

“You think it was just him? That’s a lot of livestock for one boy to handle on his own.”

“He’s a smart one, and a good roper. He took the calves first, and their mamas just followed behind. But we’re getting ahead. I got to tell it my own way, boy, because in truth I don’t know how much of this is my own damn fault.”

Colton settled back, took another sip. This was working up to be a fine tale, just the kind he liked to hear. The kind that worked its way around to the truth in its own sweet time.

“Her name was Tamale Pie.” Colton could see Diego twitch a bit. “She was a, well, I guess you could say she was a whore. But I never thought of her that way. She was a good old gal, had a trailer up there in the mountains and she used to entertain, you know. You could go visit her and you knew she would have a pot of stew orbbeans on the stove, and she’d make you up some fry bread. You could have a hand of cards and somebody to listen to your stories and somebody to share a bottle with. She had a bit of trouble with the drink, but, I mean, who doesn’t! Anyway, that’s what I mean she was a good old gal. Just a friendly, nice sort of woman. She didn’t have the boy until she was more than forty. She told me she thought she was going through the change early. He was a bit of a surprise.”

“Sounds like.”

“She’s part Apache, and the boy grew up dark, so she thought his daddy must have been Apache or maybe Mexican. She named him Johnny Bravo, and it didn’t take the other kids in kindergarten very long to let him know he had been named after a damn cartoon character. That old girl never had the sense to fill a teacup. The boy, he grew up one of those lonely boys who like to ride off alone and read books, looking all handsome and desperate. He was always on a horse, every chance he could get, and he about drove those bookmobile ladies crazy demanding they bring him books. I don’t know how he acted with his mama, because he always took off when there were any men around.”

“How could his mama afford him a horse?”

Joshua shifted a bit on the sofa, reached for the bottle and tipped it up to his cup again. “Well, she couldn’t have, and that’s the truth of it. Her money went straight into the bottle. Now, she didn’t drink, not one bit once she knew she was pregnant, cause I had to listen to her complain about it a good deal. But she’s not out of the hospital from having him for two weeks before that came to an end.

“And if the truth be known, I gave the boy a horse when he was, oh, seven or eight, something like that. He was a serious boy and he was horse-crazy already, so I knew he’d take care of it. I thought he needed something to take care of, because there was no trying to take care of his mama, and some people just need that. And he loved that horse. Of course, he used that same damn horse to rustle my cattle!” He leaned forward, stuck a gnarled old finger at Colton. “You got to find him and stop him. He thinks he’s living in some sad western song and he’s gonna go down in flames, rustling. That’s just the wrong way to go and he’s gonna get hurt. What I want you to do is find him and help put him back on the right path.”

Colton thought for a minute, and Diego spoke up. “What’s he reading? Louis L’Amour?”

The old man shook his head. “No, it’s that damn Cormac McCarthy! That old boy can write a crazy cowboy story.”

“All the Pretty Horses? Not Blood Meridian? Damn.”

The old man shrugged. “If it has a horse in it, he’ll be reading it.”

Joshua had a pattern to drinking his coffee, Colton noticed. He would take two sips, then top of the cup with whiskey. Two sips, then top off the cup. He needed to get him up and moving around or he was going to pass out and they would have to make three trips out here to hear this whole damn story. “Why don’t you take me on a tour of the ranch?”

The old man struggled up from the couch. “I could do that. There was a time, this was the prettiest valley in Arizona. Still is to me.”

Diego was resting his head on his propped up hand. “I’ll just stay here a bit if that’s all right.”

Joshua nodded. “You just rest easy, boy.” He followed Colton down the porch steps. “He’s a pretty one. And he’s a good doctor, too. What happened to his eye?”

“The sheriff of Pima County put his pocket knife in there and dug it out.”

Joshua stopped in his tracks. “Not your uncle? What did he do a damn-fool thing like that for? Was it because he didn’t like you being a queer?”

“He just wanted somebody to hate.”

“Goddamn, boy, I am sorry to hear that. Where is he now, prison?”

“Dead. He got shanked in prison about two months after he got there.”

The old man was shaking his head. “Goddamn, it’s a mean world. And that doctor, he’s something special. You know, I showed up at the ER, and I’d had a bit on, cause I thought the best thing to do would be to just cut it off myself.”

“What, you mean your ball that got all swollen? You were gonna cut it off yourself?”

“Yeah. I haven’t been to the hospital since I got my arm broke when I was a kid, and I figured, just go ahead and cut the bad parts out like you’d do to a bull got his balls twisted. I’ve castrated a lot of calves over the years. So I got tanked, preparing to do the job, but then I couldn’t do it. So this old man lives back over there,” Joshua gestured with his hand, “he rides me in to the hospital. Soon as I’m in the door some child with red hair keeps asking me for my insurance card. I say `insurance for what? The truck?’”`Health insurance,’ she says, looking at me like she’s smelling somebody’s rolled in cow shit. `How are you planning to pay for your care?’”‘So I say, well, you can just send me the bill and I’ll pay it,like I do all my bills.’ `You must be joking,’ she says, and I was getting riled by then. So here comes the young doctor, and he says, `Let’s see what we’re talking about here.’ And the girl, her face is getting all pink looking at him, which does nothing for her looks with that red hair. `You’re doing too much pro bono, Doctor,’ she says, `and he doesn’t have any health insurance,’ and he just smiles all gentle and says, `well, Michelle, what I want to do right now is examine this patient.’ Next thing I know he has me in the exam room and I show him the problem. He rears back like a horse just kicked him in the teeth. `We’d better do something about that right now, don’t you think? I don’t want to put you to sleep, though, cause you’ve had a bit to drink. So let’s just numb it up and do the job.’ I say, `fine, you sound like you know what you’re talking about,’ and next thing I know I’m in the operating room and somebody’s stripping me off and scrubbing me down and the job’s done.”

“How much was the bill?”

“He sent me a bill for forty dollars, and I paid it off when my social security came in. Want to hear something funny? I seem to remember I told him that forty dollars was how much the vet charged to whack off a twisted ball. Maybe they all set their prices the same.”

“Maybe.”

“Now look out that way, boy. You ever seen anything so pretty in your life?” The old man was pointing to where his land began, a little creek running down through a mountain pass, falling down into the valley.

Colton turned in a circle, taking it all in. He could tell that Joshua wasn’t seeing the disrepair, the fences falling down and the old tractor abandoned where it had stopped running. “It’s fine country up here. I love the mountains. I don’t have water like this down on my ranch. That creek running all year, that is a blessing.”

“I first saw this land when I was seventeen. I had me a bit of money from selling my daddy’s Trading Post. It was up there in Navajo country, but I had gotten a broken heart from some proud girl wouldn’t have anything to do with me. So I sold up and went on the road, looking to find me some land of my own. I’ve got some pronghorn, like to come at dusk and drink out of the creek. It’s right pretty watching them run across the land. I know those fences are down,” he said, surprising Colton. “Last year a baby pronghorn got hooked up in the fence, trying to jump it. The little leg got broke and I just never had the heart to try and put the fence backbup. Not that I could do much these days by myself.”

“I got a strong boy living out on my place. If you want, him and me could come up some weekend, give you a hand. You want to have a pen for the goats when they come back?”

“Thank you. I sure would like to have a good pen for those goats. But what makes you think they haven’t been turned into barbeque already?”

“Two of them have. I think he’s still got the third. Joshua, is that boy yours? You’re sure acting like you’re trying to be a father to him.”

Joshua shook his head. “I’d stopped being with his mama that way about ten years before he was born. But I couldn’t help but wonder, all those times I was with her when we were both young, what if she had gotten pregnant? Had she gotten rid of those babies? It’s just that , I knew he wasn’t, but I kind of thought he might have been.”

Joshua looked out across his land. “He might have been, in another life.”

And in another life, you might have had a son.

www.consideration.org/black/index.html
www.liquidsilverbooks.com/

Hard Hats: Gay Erotic Stories excerpts edited by Neil Plakcy

I spent five years working as a project manager on various shopping center construction sites, and the hard-working, hard-bodied guys I saw around me every day were the subject of some of my most intense fantasies. From the shirtless carpenters to the beefy laborers, there was plenty of guy candy.

Here are a couple of pieces from Hard Hats: Gay Erotic Stories by Neil Plakcy (Editor), just to whet your appetite!

Hard Hats: Gay Erotic Stories
Cleis Press (March 18, 200
ISBN-10: 1573443123

Excerpts:

from Demo Dogs by Dale Chase

The guy driving this massive yellow belching beast wears a short-sleeved chambray shirt which looks about to burst at the seams. Beneath his white hard had he’s deeply tanned. Even at this distance I can spot a chiseled jaw and rugged good looks. As his dozer chews into the old house with slow, persistent attacks I think of him doing that to me, knowing there’s gotta be a fat dick in those jeans. After awhile when the porch overhang has collapsed, he backs up, pauses, and looks my way. Still at the deck railing, I wave. He nods, then goes back to work.

Others drive Bobcats and clear the rubble he creates. Some glance my way but when they stop for what appears to be a morning break, the dozer dude comes up the path.

“You like to watch,” he says.

“Like to do more than that,” I reply because my dick is hard and I can see he’s interested. “Why don’t you come inside,” I suggest.

He nods, rubs his bulging crotch.

from Hazard Pay-Off by Landon Dixon

Blake was in his mid-twenties, muscular all over from lifting and planting and stamping pavers for a living, with short black hair and warm brown eyes. He filled his faded jeans tight and taut, round in all the right places, his cheeks looking hard as the stones he was setting down. And since it was so hot, the work so heavy, he had his shirt off, his chiseled torso gleaming smooth and pumped in the sunshine. The guy was actually a good half-foot shorter than I was, but then I’m a carrot-topped beanpole.

I ogled my boss’s rock-hard, glistening body constantly, my mouth hanging open and eating dust, craving to lick the salty sweat from his muscle-humped chest and rigid nipples. I strangled the handles on the dolly, yearning to finger the soft, perspiration-slick crack of his apple ass. And what with all my sweating and drooling, I was soon parched with thirst.

from Daniel in the Lyons Den by Neil Plakcy

Joe Lyons was so near I could smell the tobacco on his breath, and a faint trace of his cologne. Leaning over me to point something out, his face was so close I could have kissed him.

And gotten my ass kicked, I was sure. Joe Lyons exuded a sexy machismo, and I knew from the ribbing he got around the site that he was quite a cocksman. The ladies were allegedly lined up for a piece of his sausage.

And speaking of that, I looked down at his thighs and saw his meat outlined against the taut fabric of his jeans. It had to be eight inches long, thick as a salami. It made me even more nervous to squat there next to him, and I lost my balance, almost tumbling into the ditch in front of us.

He reached out and grabbed my arm, and I fell back against him. For a moment, he held his arm around my shoulder, and I nearly melted under the strength of his grip.

“You all right, peckerhead?” he asked.

“You bet,” I said, standing up.

from Constructional Voodoo by Logan Zachary

My eyes followed the drop of sweat as it rolled down the hairy chest that stood in front of me. The tight blue jeans absorbed it quickly in the summer’s heat. The huge bulge strained against the zipper and seemed to swell. I forced my gaze up into the eyes of the man at my front door.

“As you can see, we’re digging up the street in front of your house.” The man stepped to the side so I could see the road. His red shirt hung open all the way down to his furry belly button.

An innie.

“You may want to store some water, in case we need to flush the hydrants.”

I forced my eyes back up to his face.

He turned, and our eyes finally meet.

Deep blue. I wanted to dive in.

No words were forming in my mind or my mouth. All I could manage was a nod.

“Just thought I’d let you know.” The man took out a white handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. He turned and tried to stick it into his back pocket as he walked down the porch stairs. The handkerchief missed, slipped out of his pocket, and landed on the top step.

from Ball Bearings by Rob Rosen

I walked further into my new home, into what would be my bedroom. The flooring boards were stacked to one side, perhaps two feet high. I placed one foot on the stack and squatted down several inches, pulling on my hefty balls as I did so, and still slowly working my seven, upturned inches, occasionally pulling down on the clamps, each time moaning as I did so.

Luckily for me, the clamps weren’t the only things the workers had left behind. On the end of the pile of wood sat a finishing hammer, its base as wide as my prick, as phallic an instrument as ever there was one. With my cock and balls and nips getting stimulated, why not my asshole, I figured.

I reached over and grabbed it, then looked around for some sort of lube. My answer lay in the almost finished master bathroom. On the sink sat a small tub of grease remover, the jar open, its white, gloppy filling beckoning me.

I dipped my hand inside, engulfing three of my fingers in the slick goop. The trio quickly found their way to their intended goal, gliding around and then slowly inside my puckered hole, lubing it up, stretching it out, getting it ready for the object that now rested on the soon to be installed toilet.

Once my asshole was adequately prepped, I spread a layer of the lube up and down my shaft, then reached for the hammer, also slicking it up before placing the wooden base flush against my hole. It was a unique way to christen my new home, and a welcome one at that.

The solid wood slid in and up and back, sending a shiver down my spine and a flush through my stomach. My asshole clenched then gave in to the pressure of the unbending tool. My cock thickened and instantly became slick with precome. I sighed, and slowly, rhythmically, fucked myself with the end of the hammer.

I was too preoccupied, or too far in the belly of my home, to hear the approaching footsteps, but I did, however, hear this: “Um, I think that’s my hammer you’ve got there.”

I froze, with half the tool buried inside of me, and my hand gripped tightly around my dick. My eyes, which had been shut tight in rapture, suddenly blinked open.

A man in denim shorts and a tight, white tank was staring at me, grinning as he stood there, arms akimbo. He was tall, lean, ruggedly handsome and, much to my relief, amused at my present state.

http://www.mahubooks.com/

Man, Oh Man: Writing M/M Fiction for Kinks and Ca$h excerpt by Josh Lanyon

Hello, I’m Josh Lanyon. I write gay or M/M romance usually within the context of a romantic-suspense or mystery romance. I’ve been writing and publishing M/M or gay fiction for over a decade; in fact, MLR Press has just released my How To book titled Man, Oh Man: Writing M/M Fiction for Kinks and Ca$h. This morning I thought I’d share a brief excerpt from the chapter on writing that ever popular staple of M/M romance: Angst.

Man, Oh Man: Writing M/M Fiction for Kinks and Ca$h
MLR Press (March 22, 200
ISBN: 1934531308

Excerpt:

Angst is closely aligned to another vastly popular element in M/M fiction known as Hurt/Comfort or HC. If your protagonist is critically injured and languishing in hospital, and his boyfriend is out of town on a secret mission, the hurt/comfort quotient drops, but the angst quotient skyrockets. See how that works?

Of course hurt/comfort and angst are not exclusive by any means to M/M fiction. Most romantic fiction is rife with the emotional highs and lows that result from pain and plenty of it. And like hurt/comfort, angst is a staple of slash fan fiction – which is where a great many M/M writers come from. As you can imagine all those serious illnesses, critical injuries, nervous breakdowns, rapes, betrayals, addictions, kidnappings, stalkings, deaths in the family, broken dreams, shattered hopes and really really REALLY bad days lead to a certain amount of tension. Even anxiety.

Angst is actually a Germanic word meaning “anxiety.” The Danish philosopher and theologian Kierkegaard, used the term angst to express his belief that the human condition was riddled with despair. He wrote a philosophical novel called Fear and Trembling. What does that tell you?

Typically we associate angst with adolescence. Few people are better at suffering loudly and noticeably than teenagers. It’s an art form with them, and you have to respect that.

Acne and existential quandaries aside, angst is also a very important ingredient in M/M fiction. Well, not all M/M fiction. Romantic comedy and action/adventure are mercifully angst-free for the most part, but any time your characters are suffering over their conflicted feelings — generally for each other — they are usually angsting.

Please note: if they’re just depressed and insecure, that’s not angst. Angst requires serious suffering. Breaking up with your boyfriend is sad. Your boyfriend dying is tragic. Finding out after your boyfriend dies that he was seeing someone else — now that’s angst.

Death, disease, disaster — this is all angstilicious stuff. High drama is what separates true angst from the anxiety normal to the human condition.

Historical M/M lends itself particularly well to angst. It’s the whole, love-that-dare-not- speak-its-name thing. In my World War II historical novella Snowball in Hell, Journalist Nathan Doyle has just returned home from North Africa — still recovering from wounds received in the Western Desert Campaign — when he’s asked to cover the murder of a society blackmailer. Lt. Matthew Spain of the LAPD homicide squad is the cop in charge of investigating the blackmailer’s murder – and he has his own secrets.

He could feel Mathew’s withdrawal, although each time their eyes met, Mathew smiled fleetingly, and the knowledge of what they had shared was in his eyes. In Union Station, things happened very quickly, and they were out front on the pavement while the never-ending flood of passengers and friends and family parted around them.

Instead he said softly, “Take care of yourself, Mathew.”
[Snowball in Hell by Josh Lanyon (Aspen Mountain Press)]

Yaoi is also angstful: all those giant cartoon eyes veritably brim with grief at the human condition — mostly their own.

Wondering if the object of your affections feels the same is not technically angst — unless you’re under 18. Having a closeted lover, however, is generally grounds for angst.

Because I have a weird sense of humor, the more angstful the story, the more likely I am to find it funny. I guess someone left a banana peel on my pain threshold. Anyway, my advice is that you use angst sparingly. Less is more. Heaping coals on your hapless character’s head in chapter after chapter just reminds me of those sappy Victorian novels where the noble and long-suffering hero (or heroine) endures tragedy after tragedy only to die with a brave smile and an angelic sentiment upon his rosebud lips after saving a child from the wheels of a train.

In my opinion the more angsty the journey, the more life-affirming and reassuring the happy ending should be — but that’s just me. I’m in favor of happy endings from a purely philosophical standpoint.

Sometimes angst is its own reward — some protagonists do suffer beautifully — but generally it requires comforting. Ideally from the other protagonist. You can see what a vicious cycle this could turn into. It’s enough to make a grown man cry.

http://www.joshlanyon.com

The Three Miracles of Santos Socorro by Sarah Black

The following, an excerpt from The Three Miracles of Santos Socorro by Sarah Black, is about several of her favorite things: tamales,Christmas, masks, and a couple of forty year old guys standing at a crossroads.

The Three Miracles of Santos Socorro
Loose ID (December, 2007)
ISBN: 978-1-59632-586-9

Excerpt

Emma reached for the door and held it open when she saw him fumbling
with the lock. “Mr. Green, what happened? You’re bleeding!”

“I just skinned my knee,” Abraham said, holding a piece of telfa to
the spot and hobbling in the door. “I can’t get a Band-aid to stick.”

Emma blinked down at his knee. “Maybe you should, you know, shave or
something. Use the scissors and trim a bit. Because you’re really,
you know…” Her voice trailed off.

“Hairy. Yes, I know.”

Emma was such a lovely golden cheerleader princess, with a smile
that must have put her orthodontist in a new Jaguar. But it was all
a mask, a disguise of her true self. When Abraham had first
interviewed Emma for the position of sales clerk at Aztec Gold, his
upscale chocolateria, she had been wearing black lipstick, a dog
collar with spikes around her tender ivory throat, and was going by
the name `Diablo.’

She told him she was a theater major at San Antonio State, and he
convinced her to assume the role of a perky WASP princess and sell
chocolates for him in the mornings, with the understanding that it
was only acting. Her performance was flawless. So flawless, in fact,
he suspected Diablo’s blonde pageboy and Peter Pan collars and Navy
blue pleated skirts were a Catholic school disguise she had only
recently shed.

“I’ll go along with this,” she said, “but any sicko motherfucker
with gray hair thinks I’m Lolita and tries to cop a feel, he’s gonna
get some Aztec Gold shoved up his ass.”

“Agreed,” Abraham said. “Actually, I don’t see this role appealing
to the weirdo Daddy crowd. I’m picturing it more in the role of the
lovely and virginal daughter and granddaughter. Most of our
customers are, you know, well-to-do women. Society women. I want you
to pretend to be the good granddaughter they all want, the one with
perfect manners who listens to them, so they will come in here and
drop a fortune on our chocolate.”

Diablo nibbled on her bottom lip. “I can do that. See, if I wanted
to appeal to the Daddy crowd, I would let one of my knee socks fall
down. They like that. It drives grandmothers crazy, though.

Grandmothers don’t like messy. They like tidy knee socks. Okay, good
direction, Mr. Green.”

And when Abraham saw her next, shining cap of gold hair, strawberry
lip gloss and a couple of ginger freckles on her nose and a very
slightly wilted violet pinned to her white blouse, he knew she had
embraced the role. Abraham had been right, too. More times than he
could count elegant matrons congratulated him on finding such a
charming young lady to help in the shop. So respectful! Such
excellent manners!

Saturday nights Diablo re-emerged, but by Monday morning all the
black nail polish, fake blood, and ripped fishnets were safely
hidden away again, and Emma was on the job.

“So what happened to your knee?”

“I skinned it playing basketball. Got anything planned for tonight?”

“Yeah, Blood Rave at The Grotto.” She saw his look. “It’s like our
Christmas party.” Her face was suddenly gleeful. “I think we’re
gonna do a fake virgin sacrifice. Cool, huh? I’m pretty sure I’m a
shoe-in for the virgin.”

“Diablo, this is entirely safe, isn’t it? I hear about these raves,
date-rape drugs and girls getting hurt. Now virgin sacrifice?”

She waved this away. Her nails were buffed and very clean. “It’s
theater, drama. Role-playing. You know, since the time of the Greeks
altars and great drama have gone together like cheeseburgers and
fries. How about you, Mr. Green? Got any plans?”

Abraham shook his head. “I’ve got to go help Santos’ grandmother
make tamales.”

The swinging doors to the kitchen flew open. “Oh, no, you’re not
making tamales tonight. You’ve got a date!”

The kitchen smelled like dark chocolate, cinnamon, coffee, vanilla,
and normally these smells, and the sight of his beautiful kitchen,
copper bowls, white marble counters, handsome Latin chocolatiers in
spotless uniforms, was enough to cause him to swallow his irritation
with David’s latest scheme to fix he and Santos up in a threesome.
No matter how many times he’d told David they were happy, David
thought `happy’ was a synonym for `boring’, and they would become
sexually stale without the addition of a third or some stout ropes
or a can of foaming mint lube.

“Don’t tell me you’ve rousted up another one of those strange `gay
bears.’ That last guy must have weighed three hundred pounds and he
was significantly more interested in the Death by Chocolate cake
than anything else. He could have crushed Santos to death with no
problem.”

David shrugged an elegant shoulder and reached into the Sub-Zero for
the eggs. “We have the tea menu yet?”

Abraham pointed silently at the menu, posted at 0530 this morning,
as it was every morning, before he had headed to the gym for his
usual morning B-Ball game.

“Oh, right. Well, what happened was I went to this mask-making
workshop with Diablo, and I met these frisky boys and they had a
branch, like, a gay mask-making club.”

“A gay mask-making club in San Antonio?”

“Oh, yeah. The underworld is a rich and beautiful culture, bro.”

Manuel nodded from the dried fruit table. He was dipping golden
pieces of pineapple in the ganache. “That’s true, boss. Culture,
it’s not what they talk about, like there’s a dominant culture and a
non-dominant culture. It has layers, like the layers of a…of a…”

“Of a truffle!” David offered this like a gift, but Manuel shook his
head.

“More like a tiramisu.”

Abraham studied them as if they were recently arrived from another
planet. “Sociology in the kitchen? Interesting. But I said no to the
blind date. Me and Santos are fine, for the millionth time. We don’t
want to have sex with strangers or bears or anything involving
lashes with a little whip.”

“Wait, wait! You haven’t heard the best part!”

Oh, God. Abraham pulled an apron on over his head and took a copper
bowl from the shelf. David was gearing up for some serious
storytelling. This might take till Christmas. Meringues would be
nice for tea. He started separating eggs, good for the concentration.

“So we were exploring mask-wearing as a metaphor for identity
formation, and I noticed this one guy.”

Abraham studied his little brother. He could not possible be related
to this fey, gorgeous boy, such a bull-shitter, eyes like sweet milk
chocolate and the wheedling voice of a carny huckster. “What was
wrong with him?”

“Nothing! It was just, he didn’t really fit in with the group. I
mean, he wasn’t really into the dynamics of the whole group sex…
thing.”

A clear point in his favor, Abraham thought. “Group sex thing? Could
we discuss your personal safety for a moment?”

“He was into the masks, though, and had done a careful study of
masks of several cultures. And, you know, he wanted to talk about
them. In truth, Abraham, I was interested, but some of the other
guys, they kind of ignored him. I think he was hoping for something
else from the club, like something a little more intellectual.”

“The other guys were too busy fitting on their cock-rings and
harnesses for a little pony-play?”

“Exactly.”

“So your guy with the mask, he can only do what he wants to do with
his face hidden? That doesn’t sound too healthy.”

Manuel turned from the ganache and gave him a mournful look. “Masks
do more than hide identity, man. That’s an Anglo-European
interpretation.”

Emma had pushed through the doors. “I could use some more almond
biscotti out front. And you’re quite right, Manuel. Masks, in most
cultures, serve to provide additional identity through ritual. Many
cultures, the masks allow a spirit identity to enter the body, share
the corporeal, so to speak. Masks don’t hide. It’s just a symbolic
representation—this is who I am. And I am also this, and I am also
this. Stranger, better, more powerful, more dangerous.”

Abraham realized he was staring at her, mouth hanging open. She
pointed to her chest with her thumbs. “Hello? Theater major!” She
swept out of the kitchen like a princess, and Abraham had to resist
the urge to applaud.

He went back to work with the whisk. “So what’s the deal? Who is it?”

“That thing Diablo said, that’s what I’m…”

“David, cut the shit! Who is it, and how can I call and cancel?”

“You can’t. He said you’re already meeting him on the steps of San
Juan Capistrano at seven. He’s on duty until then.”

Abraham felt his lips go numb. “On duty?”

David was chewing on his bottom lip, and Abraham reached into the
cabinet for some pistachios. Divinity, that’s what they needed.

“Detective Santos Socorro. Your…Detective Santos Socorro.”

Pistachios flew everywhere.

David was on his hands and knees with a fox-tail broom and a dust
pan, sweeping up the nuts. “Put the cleaver down.”

“Fuck you. I wouldn’t use the good cleaver on you.” Abraham gave his
brother the bird, then limped out of the kitchen.

Santos Socorro. His knee ached just thinking about him, because it
was his hip-check this morning that had sent Abraham sprawling onto
the concrete basketball court like an eight year old. Oh, fuck me.
Abraham could feel the heat flushing through his chest, down into
his belly. Abraham could feel Santos’ hand on his hip, a little
extra heat on his skin. That’s the way they touched in public, the
rough, competitive touch of a couple of middle-aged guys on a
basketball court, a hand on the hip. Was he ready to move on? Did he
want to roll with a bear? How did he feel, and why did his lover,
Abraham Green, not know exactly how he felt? Up until this very
moment, he would have said Santos was a ten on the satisfied scale.
And so was he. No, he was a nine, because Santos’ evil witch of a
grandmother had hexed him. Shit! This was Magdalena Socorro’s curse!
She’d cursed him, and now Santos was making masks at a secret gay
mask-making club.

They had lives, work. They weren’t together every night, but who
was? He was just happy for anything Santos wanted to give him. But
if anyone had asked Abraham Green how he felt about Santos Socorro,
and he had decided to tell the truth, he would have just fallen
weakly to his knees, touched his forehead to the floor. Everything
he’d ever wanted in this life, and believed he would never find,
walked in that man’s shoes. Santos Socorro was a miracle.

http://www.loose-id.com/detail.aspx?ID=611

Drag Queen in the Court of Death excerpt by Caro Soles

This excerpt is from the Lambda Award finalist Drag Queen in the Court of Death by Caro Soles.

While cleaning out his dead ex-lover Ronnie’s apartment, staid history professor Michael Dunn-Barten makes a grisly discovery. Suddenly Michael must travel back 25 years to find answers by revisiting everybody who knew Ronnie. Back to the 1960s, back to the realization of his sexuality and the boy he loved. Back to the troubling time when his wife threw him out and his family disowned him. Back to uncover disturbing answers amidst drag queens and murky memories—and to reveal whether or not his first real love was truly a twisted killer. Drag Queen in the Court of Death is a taut thriller about a man who needs to face his past in order to forge a future. He must unravel a mystery that’s a quarter century old—no matter how painful the truth may be.

Drag Queen in the Court of Death
The Haworth Press Inc (January 1, 2007)
ISBN: 1560236302

Excerpt

The last time I came up these stairs was exactly three weeks ago. I would have stayed away longer, but Ellis was insistent, pining over all those gorgeous gowns and shoes and wigs; imagining great bolts of flashing silks and glittering lengths of magical cloth that ran though your hands like a sigh.

“And the make-up,” Ellis said, behind me on the stairs. “There’s probably mountains of the stuff.”

“No doubt,” I said. “Remember, he left most of it to Wilde Nights.”

“Well, I’m in Wilde Nights,” Ellis said.

“So am I.” That was his friend. Some young thing named Jaym or Jaym. A non-name. An effort at re-creation which I might have appreciated in my younger days. Now it just annoyed me.

I paused at the landing, the key warm and moist in my hand. The air danced with dust and heat. I didn’t understand why Ronnie had stayed so long in this place, the top floor apartment of an old converted rooming house in a part of the city that was finally becoming fashionable again. When he had moved in, he was just a student. In my home room. It was the sixties and we thought anything might happen. Anything might become something else entirely. Something wonderful and engaging and strange. Like Ronnie himself. At least, to me.

“Come on, Michael.” Behind me, the heat from Ellis’s tight body radiated close to my back. “I’m dying here.”

Immediately he caught his breath and I felt the air go still. Dying. But it was Ronnie who was dead.

For a moment I rested my hand flat against the painted door. The deep purple surface was warm. I put the key in the locks, all three of them, and stepped back. The door opened outward, making it awkward for a moment, balanced on the steps. Behind me the other two muttered and shifted to make room as the plum door swung towards me and I walked into Ronnie Lipinsky’s apartment.

Hot dust-filled air hit me in the face. It was like pushing into a wall of solid heat.

Ellis coughed. “Hell on wheels! Air! Air!” He rushed towards the one full length window, that opened onto the fire escape. We used to sit out there on hot nights, Ronnie and I, wrapped safe in the darkness and liquid emotion, talking the night away. Ellis struggled with the old much-painted wooden sash and finally forced it open. He stood for a moment, panting in the heat, the sunlight dancing on the short frosted tips of his hair.

Beside me, Jaym was looking around at the eccentric decor, his dark eyes taking in every detail. “Cool.”

Some time ago, Ronnie had remodeled the top floor, which was originally three separate rooms, into a small apartment. I didn’t understand why he’d bothered, but he loved the place. It had memories, he said. Associations. It gave him back the roots he had voluntarily broken when he came here all those years ago at the age of seventeen. Technically, he was not a draft dodger, since he hadn’t been called up yet. But he would have been. Here, in this eccentric top floor of an old house in Toronto, he recreated himself over the years, til at last, when I met him again, he was a different person.

The sloping walls were a deep midnight blue, the ceiling silver. The furniture was all upholstered in white, with painted cushions on the sofa and piled on the window seat. Near the dormer window hung five or six mobiles Ronnie had made from bits of colored glass and crystals and sparkling ornaments. They moved gently, emitting a soft tinkling sound that set my teeth on edge.

“What’s that about?” Jaym asked, pointing at one wall. It was covered with pictures of angels and saints, Madonnas and plaster cherubs and dried flowers with dusty ribbons hanging from their stems. There were pictures of men, some formal, some snapshots. Some were very old. There were also antique in memoriam cards bordered in thick black, with peoples’ names in spiked gothic script. On the floor stood two large painted wooden candlesticks, with squat beeswax candles.

“It’s a memorial to friends who have died of AIDS,” I said.

“It’s creepy,” said Ellis, with a mock shiver.

I shrugged. It was just another theatrical touch in a room filled with dramatic flair. “The gowns are through here,” I said, opening the door to the room at the back of the house.

This one was painted white, with a wall of mirrors along one side. The lighting was bright, but muted, so that the effect in the mirrors was flattering. Rows of clothes hung in plastic bags along both sides of the room.

Ellis descended on the goldmine with cries of delight. Jaym merely stared, as the light bounced off the sequins and satins, the bugle beads and seed pearls. It was as if the room winked at us.

I left them to it and went into the bedroom across the hall. Here the walls were sky blue. Someone had painted clouds on the ceiling. A mobile of stars hung in the window. This closet, I knew, was filled with sober expensive suits, which Ronnie wore to work at the law firm of Strauss and Hamburg. But it was not one of these suits he had chosen to be buried in, but a gown of old rose, with beadwork on the bodice and a high, almost Victorian neckline. I knew, because I had taken it to the funeral home, as per his request.

Across the hall I could hear Ellis’s laughter, his delighted exclamations, the ohhhs of appreciation. Jaym’s low voice answered him and occasionally he would laugh, too. I pulled myself together and collected the mail form the box downstairs, took back to the living room to sort. There was the usual junk, some bills which needed attention, a few letters and notes I put aside to answer later.

My concentration kept wandering and I soon gave in. I wasn’t ready for business. I took a box of photos from the top of the desk sank into the couch to go through them. Some of the pictures I recognized, but they were mostly of people I didn’t know, taken in bars and during drag shows, at parties where Ronnie smiled and talked with wide shouldered transvestites and men holding wine glasses or cans of beer.

Ellis and Jaym were piling selected gowns on the brightly painted chest in one corner of the living room. I vaguely remembered the chest, a trunk, really. In the old days it had stood in the middle of the room, used as a coffee table. Seeing it now brought back unpleasant memories of our breakup, an abrupt and painful wrenching apart of something I had assumed solid. I was a fool, but I had never really been in love before and Ronnie’s sudden erratic behavior was incomprehensible to me.

The laughter and screams of delight from the other room had faded now, as the two became serious in their winnowing of the treasure that crammed the racks. I raised my head to watch, catching alluring glimpses of Ellis posturing and pouting in one gown after another, his short spiky blond hair almost glittering in the bright light. Occasionally Jaym would try something on, but mostly he seemed to see his role as groom, the one who puts everything away, smoothing out wrinkles and zipping up the garment bags. I was glad he had come along.

“What a bitchin’ collection,” Ellis said, arms akimbo as he looked at the gowns he had piled on top of the old trunk. “How the hell can I choose just three?”

“Find a way,” I said. Three had been an arbitrary number, but having chosen it, I felt bound by my own careless words, something that often happened to me.

“Shit,” said Ellis. He passed several of the gowns to Jaym who obediently hung them up, I was sure in the exact same place they had come from. “I’ll have to shorten them,” Ellis went on, “but other than that they fit great. What’s in the trunk?”

I shrugged. “How would I know?” I glanced pointedly at my watch.

“Okay, okay. Just let me take a look in case he was keeping some gems hidden, for some reason. Jaym, give me a hand here. It seems to be stuck or something.”

I watched the two of them struggle with the trunk for a while. Irritated that it was taking so long, I got up and went over to help. The lock had sprung open but the top refused to budge.

“What the hell has he got in here?” Jaym asked. “His tiara collection?”

“Hold on.” I went into the tiny immaculate kitchen and came back with a screw driver, and a hammer. I resented that trunk. It had always been here, changing slowly as Ronnie changed, painted, repainted, covered with pictures or draped with shawls,